They Don't Know You Like I Do
by AwkwardCloud
Summary: Lovino Vargas and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo are two young men of vastly different, yet strangely similar worlds. It's not every day that a prison chef falls for a convicted murder and vice versa. How long will such a relationship last? Spamano (with hints of other ships). Prison AU. Romano's POV.
1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

Well, er, hello there. For those of you wondering where Chapter 4 of Oh My, Magic Tomatoes! is hiding…long story short, I had to start all over again. No worries! It will be up soon…I hope. For now, please enjoy this Prison AU fanfic inspired by one of my favorite songs; They Just Don't Know You – Little Mix.

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia, the characters (countries), the song, or anything else.**

**Summary: **Lovino Vargas and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo are two young men of seemingly different, yet strangely similar worlds. It's not every day that a prison chef falls for a convicted murder and vice versa. How long will such a relationship last? Prison AU. Romano's POV.

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><p>First off, I should probably introduce myself. However, some of you may already be acquainted with me (for some fucking reason). My name is Lovino Vargas and I am starting my first official day as a prison cook. Where exactly is this prison? I don't know, and I don't care; no one has ever told me and they sure as hell won't start telling me now.<p>

.

"Feliciano Vargas, stop your whining and get in the fucking car before I kick your sorry ass!"

"I'm sorry fratello, chiedo scusa! I-I wanted to say good-bye to Grandpa before we go because we won't be seeing him until later because we'll be working for a long time. I cannot handle long hours and working for a long time, Lovi. It's not in my genes and physique and my back will start to hurt after a little bit. I don't want to go so please let me stay with Grandpa! I can take care of him, you'll see so please don't make me go!"

.

Why would I accept a government culinary job where I spend my hours cooking shit for convicts when I could be cooking for school children? First off, this job pays the bills, grants me experience as a chef, and government jobs have good benefits. Secondly, I hate kids. I mean, some of the little shits are okay but the bratty little shits…Simply put, I can't stand them.

.

"You little shit- we signed up for this TOGETHER! Now get your ass in the fucking car before I conjure the fucking mafia out of my ass. We're going to work."

.

Why else would I accept a shitty culinary job? Well, in order to take care of my grandfather and his shitty health, accompanied with expensive ass medical bills, my idiot brother, Feliciano, and I have decided to bring in the bacon for our family. Am I scared of the murderers, rapists, thieves, arsonists, and so on? Hell to the fuck no. Lovino Vargas has pure Italian and genuine mafia blood coursing in his veins and he is not afraid to use his badass skills (wherever those skills are hiding).

I step into my car and turn on the engine while Feliciano takes the front passenger seat. I firmly held the steering wheel and step on the gas pedal cautiously.

* * *

><p>Eventually, we made it out onto the highway. You would think I would be used to Feli's constant whining and whimpering by now, given that I've grown up with him for 20 years and shit; well I'm nowhere near that point yet. It's a miracle that I can even think sanely around him. If you or any bat-shit crazy nut job even thinks of daring to spend five fucking minutes listening to him yapping his mouth about how the world should be covered in gumdrops and lollipops and how everything would be made of pasta, then let me tell you one important thing. Don't. Fucking. Do. It. I can promise you that it will be a punishment worse than the fiery flames of Hell.<p>

"Lovi, I'm not very sure about this…What if the prisoners break out and beat us up?! I do not want to die in a prison, Lovino! Why are we even doing this, fratello? I know we need to provide for the family, but don't you think we can maybe get better-"

"Feliciano Vargas, would you please shut the fuck up?! I am trying to sanely and calmly drive us to our destination and you are annoying the fuck out of me."

In an immediate response to my harsh words, tears welled up in Feliciano's eyes as he attempted to utter an apology. "I-I-I'm sorry L-Lovi…I-I p-promise I won't-"

I cut him off before he can say anything else. "Forget it; it's not your fault Feli. I should be the one apologizing. So, I'm sorry Feliciano." My incompetent, ignoramus of a brother snapped back to his happy-go-lucky, cheery mood after hearing my apology (to no surprise). He may or may have not forgotten that I was driving as he lunged for my abdomen. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" I swerved the car and successfully steered us out of a potential accident. Angry car horns and colorful warnings from other drivers were a small price to pay for the safety of me and Feliciano. "Fucking hell, Feli! Don't do that again, got it? Do you want to fucking die before we get to the prison?"

"If it means not working, sure!"

I swiveled my head towards Feliciano faster than the speed of sound (kinda like that Sonic shit kids watched). "Sometimes I think I know what you're thinking inside your brain, but then you go and say some shit like that and I'm left wondering if you're trying to be funny or suicidal." I focused more on getting both of us to our destination than listening to Feliciano continuing his explanation of why the world should be made of gumdrops, lollipops, and pasta.

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><p>I pulled into the prison parking lot, easily passing by the lovely woman based at the security checkpoint using mine and Feliciano's irresistible, woman-attracting charms. It's only natural for us Italians to flirt with women, you know. Can't really help it. I parked and stepped out of the car; Feliciano followed behind me. "Damn, this is place is really heavily guarded." I mutter a short prayer and make the sign of the cross―you know, just in case something happens―to myself before taking the first of many steps into the building. After going through what felt like the TSA security checks at airports, we were bombarded with questions regarding our purpose for visiting this shitty ass prison. The aggressive handling and harsh questions I could handle. However, Feliciano's incoherent, nervous mumbles were what scared the shit out of me. Well, it's not like he does it every day you know. The only time he stopped mumbling was to complain of how the security guy 'handled him too hard.' It is a fucking prison after all; of course they'd manhandle you aggressively in order to check to see if you've brought weapons to shoot the place up.<p>

I opened the door and walked into the warden's office, Feliciano trailing behind me. The room was colored a neutral green and the walls adorned with several awards and one or two paintings. A beautiful, deep burgundy gold rug covered a majority of the wooden floor. The first thing that caught my eye as a silver desk placard proudly displayed on top of a finely furnished, cedar desk. Standing to the left of the desk was a tall, olive-skinned, middle-eastern looking man; he looked Turkish or something, given the guy's appearance. "Uh…they said you'd be the one interviewing us...?" I attempted to make eye-contact with the Turkish man, but alas I pussied out last minute and turned my attention to the rug beneath our feet as fast as Feliciano sprints when he hears 'pasta'. Damn it, Lovino! Man the fuck up this instant!

The warden took this as an opportunity to start up a conversation. "Do you like the rug? It's hand crafted and imported from Istanbul. Beautiful, isn't it? Just like Istanbul, yes."

I stood in silence, afraid to look up at the tall, olive-skinned Turk when Feliciano decides to speak up. Great. And here I thought I was the tougher sibling.

"E-Excuse me, Mr. Warden, sir…u-uh…" Feliciano's voice trembled with fear; he looked like he was about to pass out. Shit. Feliciano, I swear to God if you say what I think you're about to say then I will-

"C-can we cook pasta? B-Because my brother and I are really good at cooking stuff a-and pasta is our signature dish a-and, uh-. "

God. Fucking. Damn. It. I chime in before the brat could utter 'pasta' again and try to divert the warden's attention towards me. "U-Uh, w-what my idiot brother meant to s-say was…uh…" I elbowed Feliciano as discreetly as I could without sparing him the slightest of my mercy. "We're h-here t-to apply for...the, uh...uh-"

"Lovino and Feliciano Vargas…correct? So you'd like to cook for my inmates, huh?" The warden smirked; quite frankly, he looked like the devil. "We've already got a chef; a Brighton...however, his 'scones'-if you can even call them scones-taste like year-old shit. Italian, right? You'd probably be able to cook something better than burnt shit...probably."

Oh, you're fucking going down old man. "You bet your fucking ass I can cook good shit! I may not be a gourmet chef or some culinary genius, but I can fucking cook a good dish when I want to, damn it."

"Feisty and a colorful vocabulary; I like it. What about your brother there?"

"If I'm hired, he's hired. Feliciano might act like a whiny bitch sometimes, but he's just as talented as I am...if not, even more talented than I."

The warden took a seat in his fancy-ass swivel chair and furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. He stroked his chin, staring down at his desk. "Give me a minute. I need to think about it."

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><p>'One minute' my ass. Silence engulfed the room for a good twenty minutes while the warden pondered whether or not he should add two hooligans to his staff of one shitty Brighton chef. I have never prayed so hard to get such a shitty job in my entire life; it's mind boggling really. Just as Feli looked like he was about to breakdown and cry from the silence, the Turkish warden turns his chair to face us; a cheeky grin was sprawled across his face.<p>

"You're hired."

"What?" I stared at the Warden, astonished and equally surprised. Hired? Is he high?

"When do you think you'll be able to start?"

Tell me this isn't happening. Is this really happening? Are you fucking kidding me? First day in the building and we've already nailed the job down.

"Actually…you could start now, if you'd like. It's almost show time anyways." The warden spun around in his swivel chair.

I glowered at the olive-skinned Turk. Feliciano squealed in glee, clapping his hands and giddily jumping up and down. Good lord Feliciano, it's not fucking Christmas. I shake my head in disbelief, refusing to grasp the unbelievable situation. "Look, Mr. Warden, sir. If this is some sort of-"

"My name is Sadik Adnan."

"Er, Warden Sadik?"

"Yes. Good to know you can speak and understand English. We will need extra help in the kitchen today. I hope you've come prepared."

Prepared? Why yes, I always have my fucking pots and pans here in my pocket just in case. "Tch, the one day I don't bring my entire kitchen with me…who fucking knew. Where's the fucking kitchen, you crazy old man?"

A smug grin was plastered over the Turk's face. "Watch your mouth, boy. Most of the inhabitants of my fine establishment are hardened criminals—serial killers, rapists, arsonists, thieves, we've got 'em all kid. You wouldn't something to just…_happen_ now, would you?"

…


	2. Morons and Idiots Alike

Author's Note:

Hah, it took me this long to upload this chapter. Combine writer's block and a deadly dose of procrastination and you get me. I apologize if anyone sounds OOC (out of character), especially Arthur Kirkland (England). There will be more apologies in the future.

**Note* The prison facility in this fic is not meant to portray how an actual prison or penitentiary operates; it's all from my head, okay? However, that doesn't mean it won't ~somewhat~ resemble a prison. You get the point.**

Enjoy the chapter!  
>Please remember to review, favorite, andor follow if you've got the time to spare.

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><p>"So, here's my set of rules and regulations to ensure my fine establishment stays orderly and in ship-shape. Rule number one: We're all friends here, so no bullshitting and shenanigans. Rule number two: Flirting with anyone—staff and prisoners—is prohibited. We've already had several complications regarding that, uh, issue…Heh. And last but not least, rule number three: Don't mingle with the cons—that's my job, not yours."<p>

Sadik lead the way from his office in the west wing, to the kitchen in the east wing. A repugnant, somewhat-burnt stench filled the network of narrow hallways that lead to the kitchen. I can see why they'd have the kitchen all the way on the opposite side of the entrance.

"It smells really bad here. Lovi, I think I might puke."

Sadik laughed, patting—more like smacking—Feliciano on the back in reassurance. "Nah, you'll get used to the smell. I know I haven't- Ack! We're here."

We came to a halt at the end of the hallway. A rusty, metal door stood between us and our new working post. Sadik withdrew a handy-dandy fan from the pocket of his jacket and fanned away the putrescent smell lingering near the door. "Okay! So, here's your little gourmet workshop. The head chef, Arthur Kirkland, will be your boss and mentor; however, I am your boss-boss. Also, be careful when you're, uh-…when you're making your way through the kitchen—Arthur tends to leave a mess behind when he works his 'magic.' Oh, and don't eat anything you see in the kitchen. It may look somewhat edible, but it ain't." Sadik gave me a hardy pat on the back, pinched Feliciano's cheeks—mine are softer, however—and sprinted back to his office. I've never seen a man run so fast and far away from anything.

"H-Hey! Where the fuck do you think you're going? Don't you dare think you're fucking done talking with that shitty monologue of yours, you old fart!" I kicked the wall out of frustration, later on screaming because damn. I kicked it hard. In fact, it even left a little dent—a dent of which I was very much proud of. That, right there, is fucking Italian badassery.

Feliciano knocked on the kitchen door; it creaked slightly open. Ain't that fucking scary? "Feli! What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"

"What, someone had to open the door."

"Don't be a smart-ass with me right now, Feliciano Vargas. Just go inside."

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><p>"Do you think we'll get to meet the prisoners, Lovi? I hope they're really nice."<p>

"Yes, Feliciano, the convicts here are all handy-dandy, swell and carry lollipops in their pockets so that when they see good children they'll give 'em a sucker." I roll my eyes as I spout bullshit to combat Feliciano's nonsense. Oh God, I hope he doesn't take that seriously.

"Really, Lovi? That's very nice of them!"

"Feliciano Vargas, just how stupid can you be? The old fart clearly said no 'mingling' with the cons. That means don't touch 'em, don't look at 'em, and don't even think about talking to 'em!'

"I can be stupid when I want to be, Lovino. Why does it smell like spoiled curry?"

You know, sometimes I just have to ask myself if maybe my idiot little brother's actually an intellectual genius who disguises himself as a carefree, irresponsible idiot. Or maybe he's just a sneaky, mischievous little shit and I haven't noticed until now? Or maybe he really is an idiot. Who am I kidding? Feliciano wouldn't hurt a fly, even if his life depended on it. 'But flies are living creatures too, Lovi' my ass! He'd probably smack a fly without hesitation if it came to pasta, however, no insect of any sort would be dumb enough to tread near Feliciano's pasta. Then again, Feliciano will smack anything when it comes to pasta.

"Shut up. Focus more on pasta than trying to talk back to me. I think we all know how that'll end, Feliciano."

"I can talk back when I want to too, Lovi. But I try not to because it's not nice to say things like 'I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you if you don't pay me back what you motherfucking owe me, you son of a bitch!' at my friends."

"They weren't my 'friends' Feli. They were a bunch of thugs who owed me a couple hundred okay? Don't tell grandpa about that. And stop swearing for Christ's sake! Gramps would crucify me if he heard you even think about swearing—you know how he is."

Feliciano nods, returning to his happy-go-lucky, peppy stride. I trip over a moldy chunk of cheese, knocking over several pots and pans scattered throughout the floor as I make my way around. I felt Feliciano tighten his grip on my side as we traversed through this mess of a kitchen. "You'd think the guy would at least clean up after himself. I wouldn't be surprised if I found a rat scurrying around. Just take a look at this shit dump."

"What the hell did you say about my kitchen?" A vexed, irritating Englishman emerged from behind piles upon piles of cardboard boxes in the back of the kitchen. He donned a white dress shirt, dark jeans, and an apron stained in various spots with curry and God knows what. Drenched with the stench of Indian spices and charcoal, he kicked his way through the mess; he muttered garbled swears as he stomped towards us. What an angry, angry man. "First of all, who are you people?! Second of all, what the fuck do you think you're doing in my bloody fucking kitchen?!"

I opened my mouth in attempt to at least utter some sort of noise, however, Feliciano was faster. "W-Well, we work here."

"Oh? Is that so?" The Briton looked amused and somewhat doubtful. "We don't usually get applicants here, if you know what I mean.

"I-I said we work here. Mr. Sadik—that's the warden guy—said we were starting today. And the door was sort of open so we, uh…We went in." Feliciano replied, somehow managing to keep up somewhat of a cheerful demeanor. Goddamn it, now he's gone and insulted the man.

"You must be the twins I've been expecting. I guess I haven't quite properly introduced myself, have I? My name is Arthur Kirkland and I'm the head chef. The only chef, that is."

"For the record, we are NOT twins. Just because two people are coincidentally born on the same day does not mean they are twins. I will have you know that I am two years older. I'm Lovino; this is my idiot brother, Feliciano."

"Why do you smell like spoiled curry?" Feliciano chimed in.

"Last night's dinner. A complete and utter disaster. I didn't think it would get such a bad reaction...Enough about me. So, have you had any cooking experience prior to now? Seeing as Sadik hired you, you must have at least some experience in a kitchen or something affiliated with preparing food."

"Well, I've cooked for a couple shitty restaurants and food joints here and there. Feliciano waited tables at said shitty restaurants and food joints. And if it makes your impression of us any better, I'm a culinary arts major."

"Look, kid, you do realize that this job doesn't pay well, right? You've got better chances at getting a job at a fancy restaurant and making it to the big leagues, so why not go there?"

"Yeah, I'm fully aware of what I could be doing; I have my reasons. And don't call me a 'kid'! We're basically the same age, bastard!"

"What Lovino means is that he can't keep a job for long-"

I rammed my elbow into Feliciano's side and watched him sink to the floor in agony. I'm sure Arthur was fully aware of my reasons; Feliciano didn't have to blurt it out the way he blurts utter stupidity. "Feliciano Vargas, if you value your life you will shut your fucking mouth and keep it that way until we get home."

"Don't you think that was a bit barbaric, Lovino- Shite! We've wasted valuable time we could have spent cooking! Hurry up and put on your aprons and hair nets, we're making breakfast for the convicts."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. You mean now? But Feli and I just fucking got here!" Cooking on the first day, not my thing. But if it means getting paid, well…I could consider. Arthur had already opened the bulky refrigerator, pulling out cartons of eggs, fruit, and sausages. He searched the kitchen drawers for any salvageable gadgets. Clearly, last night's dinner did not go so well. Seeing as the stains on Arthur's apron were bland and putrid-looking, this man clearly did not know what fucking glory spices—even a little salt and pepper—can do to one's cooking.

"Tch, another blunt knife in the drawer…Lovino, I need you to do something. Think you can cook up an omelet or something? Anything with an egg is fine. Feliciano, go ahead and cut up the fruit and make something appetizing. I'll be a quick second in the back. I need to see if we've still got a spare sharp knife here." Arthur left the two of us, unattended and clueless as to what the fuck we were gonna do to make breakfast for what, over a thousand cons? It was probably a couple hundred, but what do I fucking know? I cracked open several eggs and whisked them together, adding in salt, pepper, and some fresh herbs to spruce it up a bit. There's no time to make an omelet for hundreds of cons, so scrambled fucking eggs it is.

"Do you think we'll have to face them? I'm scared, Lovi. What if they do something to me?! Or- or to you?!" Feliciano tightened his grip on the knife, tensing up as he sliced the apples.

"Don't be stupid, Feli. There's gonna be some barrier keeping us and the cons separated, right Arthur?" Stupid Feli being stupid again, but I can't blame him. I'm just as worried for the both of us as he is.

"Nope, your brother's right. The git- I mean, the Warden trusts his cons enough that he'll allow them some human contact. More along the lines of very, very limited human contact, but it is still contact. Still, there's nothing to worry about, we only see them during breakfast and lunch; they eat dinner in their cells. So long as you don't converse with them, you'll be all right." Arthur returned with a box of knives and other gadgets and hastily washed them. "Here. Knives, spatulas, whatever else you need are there. I'll start on the sausages."

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><p>"Wow." Arthur, though saddened we'd thrown out his contribution to the breakfast, was impressed with the end result. Can't say I blame him really. His cooking isn't exactly edible…Which reasonably explains why Feliciano had to throw out his 'sausages' and fry up some bacon instead. I'm pretty sure Arthur understood what had to be done; however, Feliciano can do a better job of hiding his tears. Considering that Feliciano's quite the crybaby, that's a pretty bad insult.<p>

"What do you mean 'wow'?" I looked around at the mess we'd made trying to cook breakfast grub for cons—not bad Lovino, not bad at all. In fact, it turned out better than I'd expected. That is to say that my expectations were very low for this occupation, but that's not the point. The point is that the food looks great, tastes great, and I'm not being criticized by a chef or cook inferior to either Feliciano or I.

"It's just that the food I've made for this dump has never looked this good before. However, that doesn't mean I can't cook! I can bake a few scones in order to replace the lost sausages if you'd like."

"I don't think-"I began my words of opposition, but Feliciano, having lived with me since forever, intervened before I could unintentionally insult the Briton.

"Scones would be wonderful! But maybe you should make them as a snack later on, while the prisoners are eating their lunch we can taste your scones?"

"Sounds lovely! It's about time to open up shop anyway, so let's get moving." Arthur unlocked the catch locks of the overhead rolling gate and pushed it upward, forcing it to retract into its overhead compartment. Feli and I helped him out by scooping the food into the low-quality serving dishes already laid out.

"So, there's really no barrier whatsoever dividing us and the prisoners, right? And we're going to have to give 'em food face-to-face, huh?" I'm on the first day of the job and I'm already scooping grub onto the trays of convicted murders, rapists, arsonists, and whatever inhabits this hellhole. I have the right to question my safety in an establishment like this and no one will stop me.

"It's not that big of a problem. As I've already told you, so long as you do not make any eye or verbal contact whatsoever, you will be perfectly all right." Arthur's words were reassuring, yes, but I still had my doubts. A loud, sharp ring echoed in loop throughout the building; the unlocking of cell doors followed. "That bloody fucking annoying ring right there is the breakfast and lunch bell. As you can already tell, the bell is a signal and somewhat of a warning to everyone in the facility that the cons are coming down to eat. The milder, softer bell for dinner doesn't do as much damage to your hearing as this one. After several months here, you'll eventually get become acquainted with its obnoxious ringing."

Soon enough, I caught sight of figures cloaked in orange, treading down the staircases with their heavy, thunderous stomping. I swear to God, with the Briton and Feli as my witnesses, that the floor slightly rumbled. Half of the approaching crowd sat down while the rest had already begun lining up. Judgment day has arrived Lovino, get it fucking over with. The first of the convicts, a lightly tanned, bald, heavily tattooed hulk—well, he did resemble the hulk, save for the fact that he wasn't green—seized a tray and slammed it in front of Feliciano. "Fruit, please." was all the menacing baldy could demand of my brother. Feliciano complied with his request, hesitantly scooping a spoonful of the sliced fruit onto his tray. Who knew cons had manners? The menacing beast suggestively winked at Feliciano. "Thanks, cutie."

Feliciano whimpered at his 'compliment', flustered and stumbling with his words. "I-I-I-…T-T-That…U-Uh…" If it weren't for the con's menacing, tattooed exterior and me inheriting the traits of a coward, I would have been all over that beast's ass. He slid down the line, moving onto me and my batch of scrambled eggs. I scooped a spoonful onto his tray and he moved on, thank God. Arthur scowled at the tattooed convict and placed a handful of bacon onto the remaining slot of his tray; the man grunted and left.

"One down, a couple hundred more to go," Arthur laughed, patting Feliciano in reassurance and comfort, "Don't let him get to you. His behavior towards you is no different than to any of the other staff members and convicts here." Feli smiled, as did I, however, mine wouldn't last as Feli's did. As soon as the Briton was done, he whispered in my ear saying, "Do not let your guard down around your brother. I assume that you have knowledge about how savagely a man can act in prison when he's had absolutely no contact with a woman for God knows how many years. They'll bang anything when it comes to desperate measures, and I mean anything."

"Y-Yeah, I got the message." I gulped. My heart sank and shattered into billions of shards. If paying for Gramps' medical bills meant potentially exposing Feliciano to a brutal assault, then I'd gladly take back everything I'd done to get us this job. There's no possible way we can turn around and run; the only way to go is forward. "You okay there, Feli?" He smiled in response, cheerfully and idiotically as happy as ever—that's good to know.

The next of the prison folk came up to our little barred up, breakfast concession stand and the routine remained the same: Feliciano would supply them fruit, I would scoop a spoonful of scrambled eggs onto their trays, and Arthur would give 'em a handful of bacon. Feliciano would continue to receive loads of 'What's goin' on, cupcake?', 'Hello, beautiful!', 'Been a while since I've seen anyone as cute as you…', and most disturbingly one man had the nerve to straight up tell my precious brother 'I can fuck you any time, any day. When's it gonna be, creampuff?' Disturbing. Fucking disgusting. Absolutely appalling. I was about to straight up vomit from the smell of rotten Indian cooking and Feliciano looked like he was going to flood the entire facility with his salty tears. Just as soon as another one of his 'admirers' was about to hit on him, I intervened for the sake of Feliciano's well-being and virginity. "Veneziano, go ahead and make some of Mama's scented waters; it smells like spoiled curry and the local dump in here." Faster than the wings of a seraph, Feliciano, more than happy to comply with my sudden request, took his sweet time preparing the scented water. It was the least an older brother could do to save him from any more sexual harassment and whatnot.

"Veneziano?" Arthur questioned, "What is a 'Veneziano'?"

"Veneziano. It means 'Venetian' in Italian. I'd call him 'Veneziano', and in turn he'd call me 'Romano'. It's a nickname thing that began when we were kids. Long story short, we made nicknames for each other in order to keep ourselves from revealing our real names."

"Smart tactic. Then I assume 'Romano' would mean 'Roman'?"

"Correct."

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><p>The flock of cons began to lessen as more and more passed through the line. I gotta admit it was faster and more efficient without Feliciano taking his time scooping measly portions of fruit onto the trays messily. Slowly but surely, a group of three idiots donning the orange garb of hardened convicts made their way to the stand. "Bloody hell! Not these fucking gits again…" Arthur muttered, crushing the crispy, freshly fried bacon strips in the palm of his hand. Ouch. That has gotta fucking burn. The obnoxious-looking albino man, who seemed to be the leader of the trio, led the other two into the line. "Guten Morgen, Artie! The grub smells delicious, for once." He laughed, accepting a scoop of fruit and a spoonful of eggs from me. "New friend? He must've been the one responsible for this awesome feast."<p>

One of the other two, what looked to be a French man, chimed in after the albino. "What cutie he is to, Arthur! My, my, I'd love to get a piece of that a-"

"Be gone, you Parisian demon! And you, Gilbert, piss off would ya?! Don't you 'good morning, Artie' me! You gits have no business with neither this young man nor I."

"Mon amie, calm down and take a deep breath," replied the French convict.

"Yeah! This totally isn't awesome, Artie."

I coughed and cleared my throat, unintentionally turning the attention to me. Shit. Both idiots devilishly smirked, and I feared for my life. Arthur took a step closer towards me in order to make certain that I wouldn't be harmed or harassed the way Feliciano had been. "Get your food and bugger off." I'd nod my head in agreement, but I kept my head bowed and my vision focused solely on the remaining clump of scrambled eggs in the dish.

"You see, Arthur, we cannot leave without knowing of your lovely friend's name," said the French con, assumingly not Gilbert. Gilbert sounded more of a Germanic name.

The albino rolled up his sleeves, revealing proudly displayed tattoos of the Prussian Eagle. Someone's proud of their heritage. "You see, Antonio's got a little thing for your buddy there-"

"Mis amigos, there's no need for this. Please, shut your mouths. Now." I raised my head in curiosity. A young man of around the same age as the French con and Gilbert emerged from behind them. As he managed to squeeze between his reluctant buddies, we made eye contact. Oh God, my heart stopped and sunk to the depths of my stomach. An irresistible smile crept onto the olive-skinned man's visage. Absolute perfection. Sun-kissed olive skin, shimmering emerald eyes, and short, curly locks of a mouth-watering dark chocolate. And if I could carve the perfect man outta wax, it would look exactly like-…What. The. Fuck. Lovino Vargas, you did not just do that, nor will you ever speak of it to anyone. You are straight. You are heterosexual. All right, maybe, just maybe you have the tiniest interest in men, but that does NOT mean it will be this one.

The young man, most likely a Spaniard, winked at Arthur; the Briton glared in response. He smirked and directed his attention to me, some newbie cook that'd been hired earlier that morning. "Sorry for the trouble, Arthur." The Spaniard spat his words; Arthur turned his head away childishly as he spoke. Seems like they don't get along well. "As for you," the sex god- I mean Spaniard turned his attention to me, "I'll be seeing you soon. I hope these idiots weren't reckless enough to scare you away. Adiós, mi amor~" He turned around and, I swear to God, with a gawking Arthur as my witness, licked his lips. I choked on air. He laughed, along with Gilbert and that French man, and returned to their table. Neither of us needed a translator to know what the fucking fuck this cocky, extremely well-built- I-I mean arrogant Spaniard was trying to say.

"W-Who are they?" Hesitant, I asked Arthur who the idiotic trio was.

"Gilbert, he's the albino. German, but proudly boasts of his Prussian heritage. Francis, he's the French one, is the lustful pervert of the group. And then there's Antonio, the Spaniard. Oblivious, carefree, a little mischievous, and the most tolerable one of the three. If I had to choose which one to save out of the trio, I'd send all three down to Hell."

"I see…" Damn it! My heart's beating faster than a hummingbird's wings and it's probably because I'd been harassed by a trio of morons!

"Good morning Arthur. I see you're stained and tattered as usual." Arthur stiffened, once again crushing the bacon in the palm of his hand.

"Morning, sir."

Sadik walked up to the stand, holding a tray and insisting that I serve him prison grub. "Go ahead, boy. I'd like to sample your cooking."

I scooped on spoonful of fruit and another of the eggs onto the Warden's tray; my hands shook as I, as gently as I could in order to make a good impression, served the man his fruit and eggs. With a fork in hand, he sampled first the fruit, then the eggs. A moment of silence passed as he thoroughly chewed the lowly prison grub—officially the longest moment of silence I have experience in my life. Arthur bit his lip and I tightened my grip on the serving spoon.

"…I like it. Keep it up, Vargas." The Warden stuffed his face with scrambled eggs and assorted fruits. I've never seen a man so happy eating lowly prison grub. Weird. "And it smells great in the kitchen! For once! What's your secret?"

Feliciano scurried to the front and stood next to me. "It's all in the herbs and citrus, sir! Lime, thyme, mint, and vanilla extract!"

"I like your enthusiasm, Vargas number two. Keep it up, boys. I'll be watching." Sadik walked away, tray in hand and mouth stuffed with egg and fruit.

* * *

><p>Relieved, the three of us slumped down against the wall. I sighed, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. Feliciano giddily sat there, rocking back and forth while humming tunes our gramps would sing to us when we were younger. Arthur leaned back and relaxed against a pile of cardboard boxes. "We did well today. I've never seen the Warden so impressed with the food. It's a shame he never tried my cooking, however."<p>

"I think he had his reasons." I sighed, twirling around the spatula out of sheer boredom. The cons had gone back up once the bell rung and guards arrived, ushering them into their cells. I had one last glimpse of Antonio before he'd gone back up to the cell blocks. He waved, smiling giddily at me. As pleasant a sight as it was, I repeated Sadik's rules in my head over and over again. Rule number one: No shenanigans and bullshittery. Rule number two: No flirting with anyone in the facility. Rule number three: Don't mingle with the cons. Well, Lovino, it seems you've already broken rule number three, but it wasn't intentional. No, no, it was Antonio's fault, not mine! Brainwash yourself into thinking it was all this con's fault when it's really both sides' fault. Yeah, that sounds reasonable and valid enough.

"So, now what do we do?" Feliciano asked, curious and bored as to what we're going to do for the rest of the working day. "Also, will we ever get to cook pasta?"

"Well, up next is lunch. And I'm not entirely sure if we even have pasta."

"No pasta?! This is madness! Madness, I tell you Lovino!"

"Shut up, Feli. It's fucking pasta. We have enough pasta at home."

Arthur laughed at our quarreling. Gramps always told us that if the culinary league ever failed us, we'd make great stand-up comedians with our stupidity. "I've been thinking, and my thought is that since we've got some time before lunch why not try my scones now?"

"No! Please-"

"Lovino and I would LOVE to!"

...


End file.
